


now here you go again

by ser_mlady



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Falling In Love, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Slow Build, Time Loop, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26953780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ser_mlady/pseuds/ser_mlady
Summary: Rhaegar wins the war and deposes the Mad King. Jaime Lannister expects this to mean his service in the Kingsguard will grow vastly more pleasant. Instead, his sworn brothers are too wrapped up in their own problems to spare him any thought at all. Unwilling to let on how much this upsets him, Jaime makes a game of showing how completely he doesn't care.Then he finds himself reliving the same day, over and over. He soon realizes it's the perfect chance to act out in every way he hasn't let himself since the rebellion, free of consequence. But the people around him rarely react as Jaime expects, and his resolve not to care soon begins to waver.
Relationships: Arthur Dayne/Jaime Lannister, Jaime Lannister & Elia Martell, Jaime Lannister & Oberyn Martell, Jaime Lannister & Rhaegar Targaryen
Comments: 52
Kudos: 193





	1. Chapter 1

Jaime realizes something is strange when he staggers to the training yard, still half-asleep, and finds Arthur Dayne in the armory, armored like he's ready to practice but holding his helm and staring at it.

Exactly how he'd been sitting when Jaime found him the day before.

 _Coincidence_ , Jaime tells himself, but it really is weird, this happening twice in a row. “Training early again?” Jaime asks. “I’d think you would want to rest for the finals of the joust.”

Arthur’s head flies up. He blinks blearily as he takes Jaime in, then lets his eyes slide to the helm he's holding. It appears to take him a moment to process Jaime’s words. “I’m afraid I don’t understand your jape.”

Jaime makes an awkward whistling noise, breath passing through pursed lips. “Forgive me. You… weren’t here yesterday?”

“I guarded the king yesterday morning,” Arthur tells him blankly. He hardly looks at Jaime anymore, almost never speaks to him, and between the eye-contact and all the shared syllables, Jaime feels almost dizzy. Arthur’s frown deepens. “Are you ill?”

“We never faced each other in the tourney?”

Arthur’s brows hike up, and a flicker of humor lightens his solemn face. “Not unless you dreamt it, Jaime.”

Jaime jumps on the explanation, embarrassing as it is. Yes. That makes sense. He dreamt the day before. He rubs his eyes and forces a smile, doing his best to ignore all the reasons that reasoning wouldn’t fit. “That must be it, ser. Nerves, I bet.”

He turns away and begins to armor himself for training. He's aware of Arthur still sitting there, still holding his helm. The day before – no, _in his dream_ , Jaime had peeked several times to find Arthur staring at nothing. This time when he looks, Arthur is watching him with an odd expression. Probably wondering how Jaime manages to get his boots on the right feet every day, when he acts such an empty-headed fool. 

In his dream, Jaime had asked Arthur to train with him. He doesn’t now. He’s too rattled. Instead, he heads to the yard and recruits Willem Darry to work with him on his counter. He feels it when Arthur finally drags himself from the armory, but refuses to look in the other man's direction. He almost asks Ser Willem whether it’s the first day of the tourney, or the second, in case it’s Arthur who’s gone mad, but ultimately decides against it. 

Jaime remains in the yard as long as he usually would, unwilling to be cowed by a dream, then heads for the bathhouse. He passes Oberyn Martell on his way, and a shiver runs down his spine. The day before, he and Arthur had left the yard together. They'd encountered Oberyn, except the other man had stopped Arthur and guided him aside to have a talk, and when Jaime had looked back after a few steps, Arthur's face had gone rigid. _I don’t care,_ Jaime had told himself, and kept walking. 

How odd that he’d run into Oberyn at roughly the same time, in nearly the same place. Shrugging off a wave of misgiving, Jaime nods at the prince in acknowledgement.

Oberyn fails to notice him, and Jaime swallows anger and keeps his courtly smile firmly upon his lips. Only when he enters the bathhouse and finds it empty does he let the expression bleed away, shifting to bared teeth and what he can feel is a petulant scowl.

"I was right in front of you," he says aloud, to the large tubs and the clouds of steam. He gnashes his teeth and tramples to the nearest bath, tearing off his tunic as he does. The small, unintentional slight is a stupid thing to be angry about, and he knows it. The problem is, such things happen every bloody day. They have since Jaime received his stupid cloak.

He’d had so much else to worry about with Aerys’s madness and the executions, that he hadn't fully realized how thoroughly he was disregarded until after the war had finished. When Rhaegar returned victorious from the Trident, Jaime had thought, _Now everything will be fine. I can tell him about his father, about the wildfire, about what Aerys did to Chelsted._ But the prince didn’t so much as glance at him. He said nothing about Jaime remaining behind, as asked, and keeping his family safe.

The three knights with him were no better. Lewyn slipped away to conference with Elia in private, Ser Barristan was badly injured and spent his time abed, and Ser Jonathor never left Rhaegar’s side. Within a day, Rhaegar and Ser Jonathor rode away again. Two full months passed before Rhaegar returned to the Red Keep with the other Kingsguard and an infant son, among grim rumors that Lyanna Stark had not survived.

No one had told Jaime about her death; he'd had to overhear it. Just like he hadn't known anything about the plot to overthrow Aerys, which happened shortly after. Jaime wasn't consulted even when Tywin appeared in King’s Landing, the new-made king calling him out on his choice to remain distant from the war. Tywin had said, “Your father stole my heir. No man of sense would’ve cooperated with him.” The wording, “stole my heir,” heavily implied that he wanted Jaime back. Ser Gerold reminded Tywin that Kingsguard serve for life. To release Jaime would be to set an unwanted precedent.

Rhaegar didn't even offer him his former place as Hand. This enraged Tywin so much that he left the next day, not having spoken with Jaime in private once. 

The Red Keep redeveloped a sort of routine after that, but Jaime remained on the outside of it all. His sworn brothers would speak to him at training, exchange polite words on occasion, but their eyes mostly slid over or through him. It was the same with the king and queen, both shrouded in their own grief.

Jaime had begun having nightmares, nearly as frequent as those involving wildfire, that he'd died during the war, and was a ghost who only thought he was alive, haunting the Red Keep unseen and unheard by those around him. Even the two letters he'd gotten from Cersei were so formal and detached, she might have written them to anybody. They were about her life, her frustration that she wouldn't be returning to court, her anger at their father being passed over. Neither contained a single inquiry as to his welfare.

Jaime slips further into the bath and lets his eyes drift shut, trying to force his anger back. It isn't in his nature to do so, but he's been careful not to let on that anything is wrong. Clearly, everyone at court has decided he has no reason to be troubled or upset, no reason to have been affected at all by the war, when he’d spent all of it in King’s Landing.

What could it be but weakness, to demonstrate that this isn't the case? To show how wounded and broken he feels after doing nothing but puttering around the Red Keep, being a glorified hostage? It's better to pretend he's the person he’d been before those two years with Aerys, and adopt an exaggerated façade of that dead boy as a constant mask. It’s almost a game, seeing how oblivious he can act without anyone noticing something amiss.

Perhaps that’s what’s driving him mad.

He's out of the tub and drying off by time Arthur comes in, rubbing at his eyes. He stops when he sees Jaime, stares at him for a long moment, then grimaces and gives a horrible, awkward nod in greeting.

_He'd hoped I would be gone._

Jaime smiles for him, then takes his time getting into his breeches and tunic, chattering the whole time about his session with Ser Willem. He’s positive Arthur finds it immensely annoying, but that's part of the fun, and he gives the Sword of the Morning a last glittering grin before he finally leaves him in peace.

Jaime returns to his room in the White Sword Tower to don his armor, then goes to the king’s apartments in Maegor’s Holdfast. He relieves Ser Gerold, who nods at him and melts away without speaking. A few minutes later, Arthur shows up; the king often has an extra guard during the day.

"Ser," Jaime says cheerfully. "Where do you want me?" He's sure he knows the answer.

“I…” Arthur looks around. “Behind the king’s chair.”

Rhaegar enters the room as Arthur says this. "Rather than at the door? I'd think you believed the greatest threat was going to be in the room with us." It's the same remark he'd made in the dream, in reference to Oberyn Martell also being invited.

“That isn’t funny,” Arthur says. “I know Oberyn. He might—”

“He would _not,”_ Rhaegar says dismissively. “Elia wouldn’t have him here if she thought he would. You must admit that.”

“If she thought he’d get caught,” Arthur corrects. “Jaime, watch his plate—”

“We’re supposed to be making peace on this visit. The extent of your distrust is not helpful.”

“He spoke with me this morning—”

“Empty threats, most likely.” 

“He would be within his rights to do something.”

The king gives a long, heavy sigh. “Arthur…”

This was the same conversation, word for word, they’d had in… Jaime’s dream?

Jaime retreats to the nearest wall and sags against it, dizziness sweeping over him. This isn’t how dreams work.

Shortly thereafter, the door opens, and Elia and Rhaella arrive arm in arm, Lewyn trailing behind them. The queen is carrying little Aegon, though he's gotten big for it, almost two now, while Rhaenys walks behind them holding her cat.

Rhaegar kisses his mother's cheeks. He looks at Elia for a moment, then moves to pull her chair out for her. Elia says, "Ser Jaime, my hands are full. Would you—" And gestures to the seat with her head.

She'd done this the day before.

Jaime glances at Rhaegar, who nods. Jaime pulls out the queen’s chair, and she sits.

After the king recovers from the awkwardness of the moment, he kneels to kiss his daughter’s forehead. She lets him, then says, "Don't forget Balerion," and he tousles her hair and kisses the cat. It's gotten big, big enough she has a more difficult time hauling it around than her mother does carrying the growing Aegon, and she releases it with visible relief now that they've reached their destination.

Seats are taken. Jaime positions himself behind Rhaegar, as ordered. Arthur stands against the far wall, and Lewyn hovers behind Elia's seat. Daenerys and Jaehaerys aren’t present, both too young, and Rhaegar also not foolish enough to insist on the presence of the latter. Viserys’s absence – though expected from the day before – is more conspicuous.

Rhaegar notices. “Where is my brother?”

Rhaella purses her lips. “I overheard him making remarks that suggested it would be unwise to let him attend.”

"Remarks?"

“Vis'rys thinks Dornishmen smell,” Rhaenys offers.

“Thank you, sweetling,” Elia says.

Rhaegar winces.

Several minutes pass in strained silence.

“I was going to wait for Prince Oberyn before having the food brought out," the king says eventually.

Elia drums her fingers on the table. "I am not Oberyn's keeper, husband. I know not when he’ll come."

She has the most spectacular way of saying 'husband.' Jaime remains unsure of how he feels about Rhaegar Targaryen, who began a war and led to Lyanna Stark's death, but also deposed Aerys and seems like a competent king. But he allows that Elia has good reason to hate him, and finds it amusing when it shows.

"I meant," Rhaegar begins. He takes a deep breath. "Would you rather I wait for him, or are you hungry now?"

"You would serve breakfast without the guest of honor?" Elia says, lifting a brow.

“Do not be rude, Rhaegar,” Rhaella adds.

Rhaegar sighs. “Forgive me. I only thought…”

Rhaenys claps her hands together. "I want a puppy."

Relief flashes across Rhaegar's face. "A puppy? Is there a particular animal you're thinking of?”

"Snowflake whelped—" She counts on her fingers, then says, "a long time ago. The ken'lmaster said when they turned... when they got older, I could have one. Gran'mother took me to see."

Snowflake is a beautiful, sleek sight hound with silvery fur and long ears. She's also quite tall, and not the kind of dog that'd produce pups suitable for a princess to haul around like Rhaenys does Balerion. Having heard her chattering about the matter, Jaime is nearly positive this is what Rhaenys intends for her pet.

Rhaegar seems to sense this. “Well,” he says, clearly hesitant.

"Balerion is not quite as playful as she would like,” Rhaella offers.

The door swings open before they can discuss it further, and Oberyn swaggers into the room. He isn't as disheveled as he'd been several times when Jaime spied him around the castle, and there's nothing outright offensive about the, "Your Grace," he gives Rhaegar before going to Elia and pressing her hand, then taking the remaining seat beside her.

It _feels_ offensive all the same.

Jaime plays the odd game of trying to predict the rest of the breakfast before it happens. He's gotten better about paying attention to such things, since realizing he's stuck in the Kingsguard and that no one is ever going to tell him anything, so he'd followed the meal the day before – _in the dream?_ – reasonably closely. He recalls Rhaegar's attempts at peacemaking, Oberyn's dismissal of every one, and the prince’s resolute determination to speak with everyone at the table except for the king.

He remembers how Rhaenys's good cheer lessened as she realized something was off. Aegon, who'd been more focused on the meal than the conversation, soon looks up and begins to watch the table with wide eyes. Jaime remembers that too. It's all very tense, and it feels like _something_ is going to happen.

Somewhat disappointingly, nothing does. The last bites of food are taken away, and Rhaegar stands and says, "If you'll excuse me," and takes himself from the room. Jaime and Arthur follow. Arthur looks grim. Rhaegar, resigned.

Precisely like the previous day.

Like the… dream?

He’s beginning to get a headache.

He is also curious about whether all this tension between Rhaegar and Elia and House Martell might cause trouble. The tourney is technically for the anniversary of Rhaegar's victory on the Trident, but everyone has been acting like the important part is Oberyn coming to court as part of a delegation, on Doran's behalf, to make a show of good relations with the king.

With Tywin bristling in the west, the Riverlands, North, Stormlands, and Vale subdued but furious – and Rhaegar's punishments lenient toward the rebels – any shakiness between the Crown and Dorne would invite problems. Jaime doesn't think there'll be more war so soon. Surely, the realms couldn't bear it. But if this visit were to go horribly….

Well, Jaime doesn’t know what would happen. He’d wanted to ask the day before. He wants to ask right now. He refrains, because he’s on duty and it isn’t the time, and because Arthur and Rhaegar would lie anyway, telling him everything would be well even if they didn’t mean it. And because it doesn’t really matter. Whatever happens will happen, and Jaime will be a useless spectator, as he’s been since he was fifteen. 

“Where are you going?” Arthur asks the king eventually.

“The library,” Rhaegar says, “until we must leave for the tourney. Stand guard outside. I will not be disturbed."

At least no one is being burned, Jaime tells himself as he takes up his post to one side of the library door, settling in for a long, boring wait. He well knows Rhaegar will be in there for the better part of an hour, and he wonders what ever possessed him to think being a Kingsguard was a good idea.

Cersei, he reminds himself, and his resolutely pleasant expression dims as he considers how that had worked out. Tywin is still sulking, so she isn't here even for the tourney. Jaime had hoped... Then, perhaps that's his problem. At what point is he going to learn that hope is for fools?

"What do you think he's reading?" Jaime asks Arthur eventually. He hadn't done so the day before, but the quiet is giving him too much space to think. As he’s mostly inclined to worry about why he’s seemingly living the same day twice, conversation – even with Arthur – is the safer bet. 

Arthur looks over carefully, his eyes landing heavy on Jaime's face. After a pause, he says, "His Grace enjoys histories when he's upset."

"Histories," Jaime echoes. "Is he trying to put himself to sleep?" He says it like he's made a clever jape, even though he knows it makes him sound stupid.

Arthur forms a grimace-like smile. "I always liked histories."

Jaime shrugs. "I suppose they're not so different from stories. I enjoyed it when my uncle spoke of history. He could make it exciting. It’s the maesters who ruin the subject, the way they go on and on about the driest bits.”

Arthur's mouth moves again. He looks almost in danger of making eye-contact, gods forbid. Like he's forgotten Jaime is a ghost. But then he says, "We're on duty, Jaime."

Jaime rolls his eyes good-naturedly, while inwardly doing so with far more disdain. Fine. It isn't as if Jaime wants to talk to him anyway.

He gives a dramatic sigh and settles in for the wait.

The rest of the day progresses precisely as Jaime expects. At mid-morning, Elia, along with Viserys, Rhaenys, and Aegon, climb into a carriage to be escorted to the tourney grounds. Rhaegar rides outside, atop a black destrier, and all seven Kingsguard surround the horse and carriage. It’s a rather dramatic arrangement for the ten minute journey to the open space along the banks of the Blackwater, but the smallfolk who crowd to stare seem to appreciate it.

At the tourney grounds, the king and queen head to the viewing stands, and the Kingsguard who're competing are given leave to prepare. It’d be almost exciting if Jaime hasn't already done it. He rides against a hedge knight first and downs him in one go, then faces Yohn Royce over an hour later. He unhorses him after four tilts, resolutely not thinking about how he’d already, impossibly done so.

Then he’s pitted against Arthur.

The first time, Jaime had been in knots over their match. Since the war, Jaime has outdone Arthur in the training yard fairly consistently. Arthur doesn’t eat much anymore. He’s lost weight, and Jaime gets the impression he doesn’t sleep a lot. He hasn’t become an easy opponent, could still beat nearly every knight in the Seven Kingdoms – but Jaime isn’t _nearly every knight._ With little to look forward to that isn’t training, he’s improved considerably.

Jaime had thought the joust a chance to prove something. He’d genuinely believed that if he could beat Arthur, it might send some signal that while he hadn’t deserved his place in the Kingsguard, he had grown into it.

The match itself had been glorious. Arthur had ridden like he actually cared, and they’d broken eight lances. After that eighth pass, Arthur had looked at him, purple eyes bright even shadowed by his helm, and he’d met Jaime’s gaze so directly it’d stolen Jaime’s breath. His hands had buzzed, his mouth suddenly dry, and he’d known well as he’d ever known anything that he’d get Arthur on the next tilt.

Instead, Rhaegar had called the match. The sun had fallen too low, he said, and there was a feast to be had. He gave the day to Arthur and said the finalists would finish on the morrow.

That’d knocked the wind from Jaime harder than an outright loss would’ve. Arthur had looked toward the king’s seat, and his face had darkened so fiercely that Jaime nearly expected him to protest. That realization, that Jaime would expect things from Arthur when he'd learned the other man didn't care about him at all, had been galling. He'd refused to bear the disappointment when Arthur inevitably chose to hold his tongue.

So Jaime had smiled his stupidest, broadest smile, and he'd told Arthur, “I almost had you, ser." Then he'd shouted for his squire to help him with his armor.

He’d wanted nothing more than to slink back to the White Sword Tower and cry like a fool afterward. Instead, to show how untroubled he was, he’d attended the feast, indulged in any dessert that caught his eye, and danced with the prettiest ladies. Several times, he thought he saw Arthur watching and frowning, like he would’ve rather Jaime be upset – or perhaps simply feared Jaime would sneak off with one of the women and break his oaths – but that was likely Jaime’s imagination. He doubted Arthur would spare him half so much thought. 

This go around, Jaime unhorses Arthur on the third pass. He doesn’t consciously utilize his memory of the previous day’s match and imagines he wins by luck. Jousting often comes down to chance if the opponents are closely matched. He hasn’t cheated. It’s a fairly won bout, and as Jaime turns his mount to see Arthur sitting in the dirt, he ought to be pleased. The crowd is silent with shock, and Arthur shaking his head like he can’t comprehend it.

Jaime only feels hollow. 

Rhaegar declares the sun too low to finish the jousting, and announces the final matches will take place on the morrow. Jaime dismounts. A few onlookers recover enough to cheer, but most remain curiously silent. _They love Arthur, and do not know me._

Emptiness tears at him as he leads his horse away. Belatedly he realizes he should’ve ridden back and forth in front of the stands, or at least faced the crowd and blown kisses or handed out a flower. Made some gallant gesture. He’s slinking off like he’d lost. But it’s too late to go back, and Jaime doesn’t feel like the victor anyway. Winning hadn’t proven anything at all.

A squire appears to take his horse. When Jaime pauses to hand it off, Arthur catches up to him. He’s got his helm off, tucked under his arm. He walks with a limp. Probably a bruised bottom, judging by how he landed.

“Jaime,” Arthur says, breathing hard. He never calls Jaime ‘ser.’ It’s irritating. _He_ gave him the knighthood. Surely he should acknowledge it?

“Ser?” Jaime says.

“I wanted to say you rode well.” Arthur’s forehead creases. “I’d thought you might be more pleased.”

“So had I.” Jaime doesn’t mean to say it aloud. But he’s had a long, confusing day, and the words tumble forth before he can stop them.

Arthur blinks. He looks at Jaime like he’s a stranger. “Is something amiss?”

Jaime finds his smile. “Nothing at all.”

They walk together to the pavilion set up for the Kingsguard, the structure tall and luxuriant and made of white silk. Servants fetch water, and though Jaime takes the time to properly wash off the day’s sweat and dust, Arthur merely wipes down his face before changing clothes and slipping away. Glad to have him gone, Jaime lingers to brush out his hair and gather his thoughts, then makes his way alone to the meal.

He ends up seated near Willem Darry and a handful of knights on Rhaegar's house guard, a few looking up to congratulate him on besting Arthur, then returning to their food. Aside from receiving a handful of other compliments, no one seems to particularly care about his joust. He could probably head straight back to the keep without anyone noticing.

He doesn't. With the day winding down, the sun sinking low over the cityscape to the west, and the tables mostly illuminated by lantern light, the oddness of the day puts him on edge. It isn’t a dream. Jaime had been deluding himself about that from the beginning. Dreams do not work like this.

He lived the first day of the tourney twice. That’s the only explanation, impossible as it seems. It’s too much to get his head around, but Jaime thinks he could accept it should it prove a one-time occurrence. Should he wake on the morrow and find the jousting finals ahead of him, this day left in the past, it’d be no great matter to write it off as a queer fluke. Probably that’s what will happen.

But… what if it doesn’t?

Not ready to fall asleep and find out, Jaime lingers at the feast and listens to the singer crooning from near the high table. Once the last course has been brought out, Rhaegar stands. He's dressed all in black, save the crimson of the cloak rippling at his shoulders, and his crown glimmers by firelight. Jaime's eyes catch on him and stay trapped, though he already knows what’s to come. 

"I understand that a tourney is a poor time for speeches, so I will refrain from making one." His every word carries, crisp and majestic. "But to remain silent feels disingenuous, at this event hosted to celebrate victory and peace. If you will indulge me, I would perform a song instead."

The crowd goes quiet as a servant comes forward with Rhaegar's harp. The king moves to a seat in front of the table, where he has more room for the instrument and can better face the crowd. Once silence falls, he begins, " _High in the halls of the kings who are gone..."_

To Jaime’s horror, the song hits him like a punch to the stomach. He hates it when Rhaegar plays, because it always does that. The turn of his face, the pitch of his voice, are so undeniably genuine that it feels like he's looking at Jaime, and sees and shares everything that hurts inside him. Mayhaps he's had a bit too much wine, or mayhaps something about the deepening twilight makes him feel more a ghost than ever, but heat builds behind his eyes.

_And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave._

_Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave..._

Jaime can hardly swallow past the lump in his throat.

Rhaegar finishes his song, then after a pause of just the right length, suggests that dancing might lighten the mood. He and Elia begin, in the midst of a grassy clearing, with the sunset shining across them and out onto the Blackwater Bay.

Jaime shakes his head, suddenly tired, and slips away while all eyes are on the king and queen. It's not a long walk back to the Red Keep, but it seems to drag, the shadows growing into darkness around him. He eventually wipes his eyes with the back of his sleeve, having teared up without realizing. The stupid thing is, he doesn’t know why he’s upset. Only that he’s aggressively unhappy, that he’s been aggressively unhappy since the war ended, and… and he wants it to stop.

It's a relief to reach the White Sword Tower, though his uneasiness returns once he undresses and lays down for bed. For a time, he stares at the ceiling and wonders what the morrow will bring. Wonders if the morrow will come at all.

But his day has been wearisome, and sleep finds him before he can dwell on it at length. 

Jaime wakes the next morning with an unsettling feeling of disorientation. He hurries to the window, hoping for clouds or rain – something to distinguish this day from the last two – but the sky is unremarkable blue, and not helpful at all. 

Heart racing, Jaime dresses and hurries to the armory.

Arthur is brooding, staring at his helm.

 _It’s fine,_ Jaime tells himself. _He broods all the time nowadays. No reason he can’t be doing the same thing twice in a row._

Jaime clears his throat, and Arthur jumps.

“Today,” he says, “is it… the first day of the tourney, or the second?”

“The first,” Arthur says, looking at Jaime like he’s possibly gone mad.

_Not possibly. I have most assuredly lost my mind._

Jaime’s breath whooshes from him at once.

Right then. The first day of the tourney, for the third day in a row.

It’s fine. He’s fine.

He can handle this.


	2. Chapter 2

Jaime spends his third first day of the tourney trying to convince himself it’s a freak occurrence. That he only needs to make it to nightfall. _Then_ he’ll wake up, and the next day will have come. He goes through the motions – standing guard over the breakfast, guarding the king in the library, competing in the tourney, and attending the feast – while trying to think as little as possible.

He loses handily to Arthur in the joust. His heart isn’t in it. Afterward, he thinks Arthur looks disappointed, but he’s too wrapped up in his own worries to care.

After Rhaegar has finished singing, he returns to the Red Keep and does his best to sleep.

The next morning, Jaime doesn't bother asking questions when he steps into the armory to find Arthur staring at his helm. He turns on a heel, walks out, then locates Ser Gerold where he's standing guard outside the king's bedchamber.

"I'm ill," he tells the Lord Commander bluntly. "I can't stand guard at breakfast, nor compete in the tourney."

Ser Gerold gives Jaime a lengthy study. "Perhaps that is wise. You look unwell. Should I send for Maester Pycelle when I’m off duty?"

"No. I’ll sleep. Perhaps that’ll help."

"Send a servant to fetch Ser Oswell. He can take your place."

Jaime does so, then retreats to his sleeping cell, closes and locks the door behind him, and gets into bed and throws the covers over the top of his head. Five days. It's been five days. It can't be a dream. It can't be coincidence. Is this madness?

He doesn’t want to entertain the thought. _What else could it be? The gods?_

Jaime laughs aloud when the notion occurs to him, but his laughter dies as he realizes it's as sound an explanation as any. The gods, or perhaps some magical curse. What’s happening to him doesn’t make sense. It isn’t natural. So isn’t it appropriate that the cause of his predicament be just as far-fetched?

Somehow, this line of thought calms him. He isn’t mad. There are other explanations.

Soon as this sinks in, Jaime pulls back his covers and gets to his feet. Whatever is happening, he won’t hide in bed like a child. Perhaps he did nothing during the war but act as the Mad King's crutch, and perhaps his sworn brothers respect him too little to do him the courtesy of caring about his existence – but they’re wrong. He's a Lannister, and better than them all.

_Yes, but how do I fix this?_

As he searches for an answer, another question occurs to him.

Does he want to fix it? 

To be sure, he doesn't know how long this state of affairs might last. It could end on the morrow. In a week, or a turn of the moon, or a season. This worries him, but the concern fades to a secondary problem as he realizes the potential. As long as the day repeats, he can do whatever he wants, say whatever he wants, and it won't matter.

But… that seems too good to be true. If the gods are involved, they wouldn’t simply give him free reign to do as he pleases. In the stories, “gifts” like this tend to be tests or traps.

Jaime begins to pace, thinking hard. It isn’t that he’s ever been devout, but the other option he’d thought up – that he’s been cursed – is silly. No one cares about him enough to curse him. And if the gods _are_ testing him, he shouldn’t take advantage of the circumstances. It would be unwise, he decides, to pull the Kingsguard aside one by one and scream at them, or find Aerys in his hidden tower cell and slit his throat, or punch Rhaegar in the teeth for ignoring him after the war.

Perhaps that’s even what’s at the heart of his repeating day. The Seven have realized he's being wasted and are giving him as many chances as he needs to fix that.

Jaime likes the idea so much that he decides to assume it's true. _But how would I even begin to fix the problem?_

His first thought is that he could use the time to sharpen his skills and become such a fine jouster and swordsmen no one could stand against him. Then he wonders if he’d be able to build on his training each day. Is his body repeating the days, or only his mind? It's an important question, and one he ought to answer swiftly. _I'll cut myself, only a little. Then see if it’s still there tomorrow._

It's an intelligent experiment, the sort of thing Cersei would concoct, and Jaime is so satisfied by thinking it up that he decides to hold off on further planning until he’s performed it.

He stops pacing and goes to the window. It's late morning by the sun's place in the sky, but it feels later. He isn't used to thinking so long and so deeply about things – prefers to distract himself with duties and training, so he doesn't have to think at all – and it's wearied him.

He fishes his dagger from his trunk, and steeling himself, draws a thin line across the back of his left forearm. Blood wells up, stinging, but the slice is shallow. Jaime hadn't thought to grab bandages, so he uses an old pair of black breeches, holding it against the cut until the bleeding stops.

Afterward, hunger stirs him to find a servant, and Jaime has food brought to his rooms. The tower and castle are empty, abandoned for the tourney, so he eats in the common room of the White Sword Tower, not worried about his sworn brothers coming in and treating him like he's invisible. He busies himself paging through the White Book afterward, imagining all the feats he might add to his page with the advantage of a repeating day, then takes himself to bed.

Jaime wakes to find the cut on his arm is gone.

He sits in bed for a while, mulling this over.

That limits how much he can get ahead in his training. But it also means if he does something foolish and gets hurt, the injury won't stick. He wonders what'd happen were he to die, but it's nothing he cares to test.

The usefulness of the experiment feels lesser now that he's gotten his information. Knowing solves nothing, and he still doesn't know what to do with himself. With training himself into a legendary swordsman not an option, how is he supposed to prove his worth? By studying all the books into the library and proving how smart he is? That sounds like particularly effective torture.

For lack of a better idea, Jaime dresses and heads for the armory. He's surprised to find Arthur brooding, because he's at least a quarter hour later than he has been. _How long has the fool been sitting there?_

Curious and troubled, Jaime lingers in the doorway and stares. He's seen Arthur in the bathhouse, glimpsed skin stretched too-taught over muscle and bone, but somehow it's never sunk in how much smaller he is than before the war. It does now, Arthur hunched how he is. Jaime knows he's gotten taller than Arthur – he'd grown a couple inches after the war began, to edge him out – and he's probably _heavier_ too, which feels wrong. Arthur has always felt like a giant. How can he be smaller than Jaime?

Something about the wrongness irks him. The idea of the Sword of the Morning withering like an old man at seven and twenty.

“Why are you staring at your helm?” Jaime asks.

Arthur jumps. Again. Like he has every time Jaime has found him. Then he looks at the helm like he’d forgotten about it. He turns it awkwardly in his hands and tries to smile, except it’s so stiff and forced it’s like he needs consciously to tell every one of the little muscles in his face to move.

“I got lost in thought, I suppose.” Arthur laughs, every bit as strained as the smile. His eyes don’t meet Jaime’s. “Have you been there long?”

“No,” Jaime lies, and turns away and begins armoring himself. He should say something else now he can say anything he wants. After all, none of it will matter. He doesn't need to keep playing his part. But no matter how firmly he tells himself it’s safe to remove his mask, it sticks, like it’s been sewn into his flesh so deep he’d have to rip skin to dig it out. And then what'd be left? A raw mess? Nothing?

A shiver goes through him as he realizes he doesn’t know how to behave if he isn’t smiling and acting like he’s still fifteen.

Jaime calms down when he picks up a sparring sword; at least he knows who he is with a sword in hand. After a moment's consideration, he turns to Arthur. “Do you want to spar?” 

Arthur nods and stands. They walk from the armory side by side, as they had the first day. Jaime sneaks glances at him, hand tight around the hilt of his sword. Arthur's face is unreadable. _You can talk to him,_ Jaime thinks. _Say anything. Be something other than a fool._

No suitable alternative comes to mind.

They find an empty place in the yard, and Arthur doesn't waste time before gesturing for him to begin. Jaime keeps a careful grasp on his control as they warm up. But he is… frustrated. With his situation, with himself for being so empty, with Arthur and his stupid brooding.

He finds himself remembering the day Arthur left to kidnap Lyanna Stark. How cold and distant he'd seemed when he found Jaime in the common room. "We're leaving," he'd said, simple as that. "A mission for the prince."

"When will you be back?" Jaime had asked, and Arthur had only glanced at him.

"It's difficult to say."

That'd been all. Oswell Whent had come into the room and pulled Arthur away, and neither had looked back. Then he'd returned all those months later, and Jaime had been foolish enough to hope Arthur would see him and realize what he'd gone through. Would guess how bad it'd been and take him aside and ask about it. Perhaps compliment his fortitude.

He hadn't even greeted him.

Jaime doesn’t realize how hard his strikes have begun to fall until Arthur misses a block, and the blow Jaime lands sends him to his arse, sword falling from his grip. Willem Darry is working with several guards nearby, and they stop what they're doing to stare.

Arthur peers up at him through the helm, blinking, as if he'd been asleep and is only now waking. His brow is creased with pain, and there's a question in his eyes. "Jaime?"

"What are you doing?" Jaime demands. "You're better than this."

Arthur shakes his head once, then stands and picks up his sword. He lifts his blade and catches Jaime's gaze. “Again.”

_Did you not resolve not to act out this way?_ Jaime thinks, but he doesn’t feel hollow anymore, and Arthur is looking at him like nothing else exists. Like Jaime is alive and important. He stops thinking and falls on Arthur like he's wanted to for months.

Arthur is off-balance with surprise, and Jaime delivers hard strike after hard strike, bringing his sword down on the other man's arms and torso, slicing into his legs. Arthur keeps standing through all of it. Doesn't drop his sword and doesn't yield.

Then Jaime lands a blow on Arthur’s pauldron that makes the other man drop his sword. As it falls to the dirt, Jaime brings up his shield and slams it into Arthur’s face so hard that he collapses and doesn’t immediately get up. Jaime initially fears he’s killed him, but when he kneels and takes a closer look, Arthur is breathing. Just... not conscious.

_It’ll be annoying if he doesn't wake up_ , Jaime thinks, but he has to make himself think it, the words covering a sea of other, more complicated feelings that surge through him at the sight of Arthur Dayne laying prone in the dirt. He brings his teeth hard together and makes his face cold.

Arthur's lashes flutter, and his eyelids lift. He looks at Jaime like he doesn't immediately recognize him. He shuts his eyes a second time, his face going pained. "Do you... want to go again?"

"I bet you see two of me. You'd be even more useless." Bitterness has never tasted so sweet. Now Arthur's clearly not dead, he can appreciate it. He stands, notices two of the guards have approached, looking wary. Jaime snaps, "He's fine. Fuck off."

They glance at each other.

"It's all right," Arthur says. His voice comes out unsteadily, but is somewhat convincing. He's pushed himself into a sitting position. Blood runs freely from his nose. "Leave us."

They do.

Jaime doesn't offer a hand to help Arthur up. He stands and watches him struggle, sway, then keep his feet.

Arthur takes off his helm, black hair falling unevenly around ashen cheeks. He's visibly confused. That makes Jaime angrier, and it makes him want to weep too. It's too much. He drops his sword and tears to the armory.

"This is what you weren't going to do," he mutters to himself. At the same time, he wants to hit Arthur again, harder, over and over until he doesn't get up. Jaime bangs his things back into place, angry tears blurring his vision.

Arthur reappears just as Jaime has set his final greave into its spot. He's carrying Jaime's sword alongside his own, along with his helm. He hasn’t seen to his nose, and blood runs down the front of his breastplate, drawing rivers across the cold steel. His eyes are too wide, his step unsteady. He puts down both swords too hard, then winces at the noise they make.

Jaime falls still, tension vibrating through him. He isn't sure if he wants to run or to lash out further, to go after Arthur with his hands this time, tearing and punching and choking until he's hurt him half as much as Arthur's indifference has hurt him.

"Is something wrong?" Arthur asks after a moment, turning from the discarded swords. He seems to brace himself, then looks Jaime full in the eye.

Jaime remembers he's been crying. He slams his eyes shut. Through clenched teeth, he chokes out, "Don't pretend to care."

Arthur says nothing.

Jaime opens his eyes to find the other man staring at him in confusion. It pricks him to anger. "Perhaps I'm simply sick of looking at you and your stupid sunken face. I'm sick of sparring with you, when you've gotten useless as a horse's arse. I'm sick of your moping. Is that supposed to fix anything? Do you think if you're miserable for long enough, Lyanna Stark will be less dead? Or are you putting on a show to make sure everyone knows how guilty you feel? Does Benjen appreciate it?”

Benjen Stark is a hostage at the Red Keep, though Jaime almost never sees him. He doesn’t particularly care about him, nor about Lyanna Stark. He only brings them up because he suspects doing so will hurt Arthur.

It does. Arthur sinks to one of the benches with this awful look, like he's suddenly been thrown into a nightmare and can't do anything but wait it out.

"Is something wrong?" Jaime echoes with venom, repeating Arthur’s initial inquiry. "What isn't? I’m surrounded by useless hypocrites who wank off to their collective self-loathing, but act like I'm not worth noticing."

He's properly crying now, like a child. Jaime gulps in a ragged breath and waits for more words to come pouring out, but they don't. They're gone, laughably. That's all he has to say. Everything he’d been holding in, drained out of him in _a minute._

Worse than that, he doesn’t feel better. Just rancid and ugly, like something has been festering inside him and now he's been cut open and it's all spilled out. And... there’s nothing left. 

It answers his earlier question about what's beneath the mask when the pain and anger are taken away.

Emptiness. That’s all.

Jaime opens his mouth to say something, anything to fill the silence, but he stops as he notices the play of emotion across Arthur's face, shock giving way to a flash of horror, and then awful resignation. _Oh_ , his face says, _that makes sense._

Jaime wishes he could reset the day right then. Immediately. He's seized by the horrible fear that it won't reset at all.

"Do," Arthur begins, his voice barely audible. He swallows visibly. "Do you want me to get... someone?"

"Someone?" Jaime asks blankly. Someone to what? To lock him away? Does speaking to the king's best friend in such a manner warrant imprisonment? He can't think clearly, and he shakes his head to try to clear it.

"To... help," Arthur manages in the same halting voice. "A friend, or—" He stops when Jaime laughs.

"You haven't paid attention at all, have you? There’s _no one.”_ He’s no longer angry. His voice and laughter ring hollow. The conversation has long passed unbearable. This is why he doesn't talk to people. Arthur has his mouth open like he might say more, except he looks tongue-tied, and nothing comes out.

It's no great loss. Jaime is done anyway. He walks away, moving past Arthur, who flinches aside to give him a wide berth.

Outside, Oberyn Martell is prowling. Looking for Arthur, like as not. He bounds over when he sees Jaime, looks at his face, and cocks his head like he's going to make a snide remark about the pink eyes and tears. Jaime doesn't know him. He has no opinion on the man whatsoever, but all at once, his anger comes back, and he thinks, _if the gods are good, it won't matter anyway._

Before the prince can mock him, Jaime punches Oberyn in the face.

It hurts his knuckles, but Jaime doesn't care. Oberyn catches his balance and asks no questions before throwing himself at Jaime. In the end, two knights show up to pull Jaime back, another two to grab Oberyn by the arms, but by then, they’re both bruised and bleeding.

The worst part is, Oberyn’s anger fades in minutes. By time Rhaegar shows up, the prince laughingly dismisses the incident as a harmless tussle, and he declares it's brightened his otherwise dull morning.

That’s when Arthur reappears, walking like he can hardly keep his feet. The sight pulls Rhaegar’s attention from Jaime and Oberyn.

“Dear gods, Arthur,” the king says, going white. “What happened?”

“I… fell,” Arthur says.

“Lannister went mad and attacked him in the yard,” Willem Darry says with abject disapproval.

“He did not,” Arthur says, except he can’t elaborate, because his balance gives out. He falls to one knee, shakes his head, then vomits into the dirt.

“Take Ser Jaime to a tower cell,” Rhaegar says coldly.

“If you want to please the Dornish delegation, give him a reward,” Oberyn drawls with amusement.

“No,” Arthur says, wiping his mouth. His eyes are shut, and he looks ready to collapse completely. “It’s my fault. I provoked him.”

“That is no excuse.” Rhaegar kneels at Arthur’s side and puts one arm around his shoulder, half supporting him, half holding him in what looks to be self-reassurance. He glares up at Jaime, face icy. “This will not stand.”

Everything has gone so thoroughly to the seventh hell that if things don't reset, it can't get much worse. Jaime smiles, straining a split lip. "Are you going to burn me then, Your Grace?” 

Oberyn Martell throws his head back and laughs.

Jaime spends the rest of the day locked in a tower cell, to be dealt with at the tourney's end.

He wakes up the next morning back in his bed. Once he realizes where he's at, he begins laughing with relief. He laughs and laughs until he remembers the ugliness of the previous day, and then it’s all he can do to get out of bed. 

This time, Jaime doesn't bother going to Ser Gerold himself. He sends a servant to tell the Lord Commander he's ill, then slams his door shut and lays back down. Oswell Whent disturbs him after some time to demand he stop loafing around.

“Proper Kingsguard do their jobs unless they're physically unable,” he calls through Jaime’s door.

Jaime gets up, throws the door open, and lets his abject misery show on every inch of his face.

Whent takes a step back. "By the gods, you look horrible. Did you sneak off drinking last night?"

"If I did?" Jaime demands coldly. 

Whent considers, then shrugs. "It'd be more interesting than anything you've done since we met. Fine. I'll give you today." He arches a brow. "Meet any comely wenches?"

Something about his remark is unspeakably irritating. _When was I supposed to be interesting? When Aerys was burning people, or after you all came back and ignored me?_ Jaime narrows his eyes. "Only your mother. Best I could find on short notice."

"My mother is dead," Whent says.

“Is that why her cunt was so cold?"

Jaime regrets saying it, because he knows it's the precise sort of awful thing Ser Oswell will find hilarious. And he does. Whent laughs with wondrous surprise, like Jaime has impressed him. He leaves with bright eyes, and Jaime hears him laugh again once he's closed the door, the mad freak.

Jaime loafs about until the castle has emptied for the tourney, then goes to the stables and retrieves his palfrey. He rides onto the kingsroad and keeps going, maintaining a brisk clip until the city fades behind him. As he watches the sunset from atop a grassy hill, arms braced over his knees, he lets out all his breath at once.

Arthur had let Jaime all but beat him. He hadn’t said a word in his own defense, hadn't even tried to yield. Nor had he protested when Jaime said those horrible things. And after all of it, he’d tried to... help. Twice.

Jaime doesn’t understand, and thinking about it makes him sad and sick. Tomorrow, he'll do better. He'll _be_ better. He can make up for it.

Feeling cold, he settles atop the hill and frowns at the first stars as they come out. Sleep doesn’t come easily, and the Sword of the Morning has reached its highest point in the pre-dawn sky before he drifts off.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for anyone who got duplicate notices that this updated! It’s only the one chapter that’s been added. Ao3 has been weird about backdating my updates of this fic to 10/12, when I first posted, which means new chapters don’t appear with the most recently updated asoiaf fics. I caught it last time and corrected the date, but didn’t see for ch.3 until after I posted. Manually correcting the date has the fic appear alongside those that updated when the day began, which is also less than useful for reaching new readers, so I ended up deleting and reposting. Hopefully that makes sense? It should be the last time that happens.

Jaime wakes the following morning and peers out his window to ensure he’s again woken to the same day. He can now recognize the blue tint of the sky, and the bank of clouds building low to the west, half-hidden by Maegor’s Holdfast.

 _Day six,_ he thinks. _Now what?_

His conviction that this has been ordained by the gods feels shakier than it had at first, though nothing has really changed. Uncertainty leaves him at a loss, but he refuses to hide in his room again. Determinedly, Jaime dresses and strides from the tower, though the memory of Arthur’s unsurprised resignation at his venomous words keeps him from going to the armory.

At first, he wanders mindlessly for lack of better option. Then he nears the long kennel building next to the stables, and his steps slow as he recalls Rhaenys discussing Snowflake and her puppies. _It_ _’s childish,_ Jaime tells himself when inspiration pulls him closer. _It_ _’s foolish._ But it doesn’t matter, does it? The day will reset. No one will remember.

Soon as he enters, two dogs trot over to investigate. Jaime forgets his self-consciousness enough to scratch one behind the ears, the other hovering a step back, uncertain. Once the braver dog gives its approval by nudging into the extended hand, its companion sniffs at Jaime’s other hand, tail tentatively wagging. Jaime kneels to better greet them.

He’s always liked animals, though as a child, horses and dogs had been his favorite. Cersei had never minded the horses—it was admirable to be a fine rider, after all—but she’d enjoyed making mock whenever he played with the dogs. They made him smell, they slobbered on him, they didn’t have any use, did he _think_ he was a kennel boy? Jaime had taken it as teasing, but he hadn’t forgotten, and after leaving to squire, he’d only used them for hunting. As Aerys hadn’t hunted, and Rhaegar disliked it immensely, Jaime hadn’t had even that excuse to poke around the kennels at King’s Landing.

He’d missed the warm furry bodies, the easy and guileless friendliness. _They’re better than most people,_ he finds himself thinking. Simple, straightforward, and easy to please.

“Ser Jaime?”

Jaime looks up to find a kennel girl staring at him, a few years his junior, hair tousled, and dress plain. She looks nervous to be speaking with him.

Jaime tries to seem dignified, though one of the dogs has turned and is waving its tail right in his face. He gently pushes the dog away, fearing he might lose an eye, then fumbles for a way to explain his presence. The lie comes readily. “Princess Rhaenys has taken an interest in Snowflake’s litter. I thought to come inspect the puppies, to advise her on which to select.”

The kennel girl’s face softens, her eyes brightening now his presence isn’t so confusing. “Oh, they’re back in their own little room. The puppies are still small, we’ve got to keep them separate from the others unless we’re watching them close. I-if you’ll follow me, Ser Jaime?” She goes redder when she voices the last suggestion, her eyes skittering shyly away. The handful of kennel workers at the Rock had never been nervous around him. Then, he’d been a boy at the time. He’s a Kingsguard knight now.

Supposedly. He’s never quite felt like one, and it’s a change to have the girl treat him like his position makes him someone impressive.

“Of course,” Jaime tells her, surprising himself by smiling.

She smiles too.

_I was right to come here. It’s far better than seeing Arthur and his brooding face again._

Jaime trails the girl through the long kennel, past stalls similar to those in the stables, though the dogs have been given raised wooden beds, and most of the doors are open to let the hounds have the run of the fenced yard around the building. A few more approach to take a curious look at Jaime, and he indulges them brief pets before the girl calls them by name and fondly says, “Shoo, now. Away with you.” 

“Snowflake is out now,” the girl says after pausing in front of the last wooden door. “The pups have been weaned for a fortnight or so, though she still comes here to sleep. The little ones spend most their time napping, but they’re little devils when they get going. Get a bit… bitey.” She sounds wary about that, like she thinks he might get angry if they nip at him. 

“Pups are like that.” Jaime has a scar on one forearm from an over enthusiastic little dog. He’d hidden the bite and had Gerion bandage it, afraid his father would have the dog killed if he found out. Shrugging, he adds, “They don’t know people haven’t got skin tough as their brothers and sisters.”

“Aye,” the girl says, giving him a soft look. “That’s the right of it.”

They enter the room to find the pups asleep, though their heads lift at the creak of the door. Jaime finds another smile as he again kneels, this time to let the bravest of the group make its way over, little tail wagging. He glances at the girl. “How old are they?”

“Ten weeks or thereabouts. Already been getting a bit of training.” She taps the head of the pup who’s approached Jaime. “Egg, sit.”

“Egg?” Jaime asks as Egg sits. He looks about for a reward, and the girl produces a bit of carrot from one pocket and feeds it to him. 

“The princess has already been in,” she says. “She named them all.”

“Then you must introduce the others,” Jaime says, and the girl presents the six pups in turn: Egg, Ser Dog, Ot, Vhagar, Peaches, and Lewyn.

“I’m sure my sworn brother was honored,” says Jaime wryly. He picks up Lewyn-the-puppy and peers into his small face. “I even see a resemblance.” He pauses and glances at the girl. “I never got your name.”

“Brea, m’lord.” She hesitates. “If you’re settled…”

He somewhat wants her to stay, because he likes how pleasant she is, and how she looks happy with life, and because she’s clearly pleased to speak with him. But he knows it’d be odd. Odd enough she’d probably wonder why, and it’d sour everything if she thought he was trying to trick her into his bed or had some other scheme in mind. Jaime nods and sends her away, but even after the door closes behind her, puppy-Lewyn’s warm weight, and the other curious pups crowding closer, keep him from feeling alone.

They don’t quite look like sight hounds yet, their legs only just beginning to grow, their long noses not as exaggerated as they’ll be later on. He’s seen Snowflake and figures she’s eighty pounds, at least, but these can’t yet be twenty, a bit chubby, though that’s already beginning to wear off. They’re all cream-colored with dark eyes and smallish ears that don’t seem to know whether to flop or stand up.

He replaces Lewyn on the ground, then shifts from kneeling to sitting on the hard-packed floor, stretching his legs in front of him. Lewyn looks at him hopefully, tail wagging so hard it makes his whole body squirm, and Jaime finds another smile as he plunks him into his lap. He can almost imagine he is still seven, that he’s surrounded by family, that Addam and the other pages all look at him like he’s worth something. _That I_ _’ve never seen people burn. Never smelled it._

He picks up Ot and presses the dog’s soft side into his cheek, forcing away memories of Aerys as one would swallow back vomit.

Jaime can almost believe it was all a dream, here in this little room with the clean-smelling straw, no one around except six happy dogs. He stays long as he’s able, taking turns petting and holding each. They _are_ devilish, particularly when they goad him into play-wrestling and decide it’s permittable to bring out their tiny needle teeth, but Jaime knows they don’t mean anything by their biting and only offers gentle correction when they try to take pieces out of him.

Too soon, he admits to himself he ought to go, and disentangles himself from the gaggle of dogs. Ser Dog tries to barrel out of the room after him, but Jaime plucks him up and returns him to his place, then closes the door firmly behind him.

He feels almost… happy as he exists the kennel. Like now that a servant and a litter of puppies have approved of him, he’s made progress in offsetting the disaster of two days ago.

He passes Oberyn Martell as he cuts through the training yard, . The prince’s eyes flash over and past him, then return belatedly to Jaime’s face. “Have you come back from a tumble in the hay?” He’s changed direction and falls into step at Jaime’s side. “I advise you to be subtler—”

“I was in the kennels,” Jaime says, like it doesn’t matter.

Something strange happens to Prince Oberyn’s face. A slight softening around his eyes, surprise in the set of his mouth. “You liked dogs when I visited,” he says, cocking his head. “You took me to _your_ kennels and showed me all your favorites.”

Jaime almost asks when he’d ever met Oberyn Martell. Then he remembers. He stops walking and blinks. His first instinct is to punch Oberyn again before he can turn this into a joke, but the prince’s smile doesn’t look like a lie. His gaze is slightly distant, almost like he’s put himself back into the memory, and mayhaps likes it better than the present. And why wouldn’t he? Everything had been so simple, then.

“I remember,” Jaime says after a moment. He sounds disproportionately solemn and has to clear his throat. “You talked to me about horses, too.”

Oberyn’s eyes refocus, and Jaime shivers. It’s hard to feel like a ghost when someone isn’t merely looking at him, but acknowledging that Jaime had a life before the white cloak. The prince chuckles. “So I did. Do you still have an interest? I’ve begun to dabble in breeding.”

“Have you truly?” Jaime is full of questions, but he notes the position of the sun in the sky and offers a rueful grin. “But I can’t talk now. I’m to stand guard over your breakfast with the king. You‘ll be late as well if you dally too long.”

Oberyn’s smile goes roguish. “Why would I be on time when I could make His Grace uncomfortable? I’ll get there when I get there.”

Jaime has time to change and reach Rhaegar’s rooms early enough to hear he and Arthur bickering over whether Oberyn is a threat. They stop when he enters.

“You’re nearly late,” Arthur says.

Jaime can’t look at him. “Nearly isn’t _actually._ Do you want me next to His Grace’s chair, ser? With the Red Viper present, it might be safest if I’m close at hand and have a good view of the food.”

“You too?” Rhaegar asks, exasperated.

Jaime is disconcerted to find himself included in the exchange. He coughs. “I like Prince Oberyn well enough. I was only guessing at what Arthur would say.”

“You’ve guessed right,” Arthur tells him. This makes him frown, though Jaime isn’t sure why. “Next to his chair would be prudent.”

Before more can be said, Elia enters with Lewyn, Rhaella, and the children. Elia asks Jaime to pull out her chair, and when he retreats to his usual place afterward, the day’s small divergences smooth out, and the meal progresses as he’s begun to expect. Jaime uses the opportunity to sneak glances at Arthur, absurdly checking for bruises or marks, as if a sign of their match two days before might linger.

None does, but that doesn’t keep Jaime from looking away whenever Arthur glances over to seek eye-contact.

When Oberyn saunters in a quarter hour late, he shoots Jaime a smirk and a lifted brow, as if to say, ‘See? This is how it’s done.’ Jaime ducks his head to hide a grin, momentarily distracted from Arthur, and far too pleased at having been remembered and acknowledged. For the first time, he feels as if he’s managed to relive the day in a somewhat better manner than his initial go of it.

Too soon, the breakfast is over, and Rhaegar retreats to the library. Jaime expects silence to follow, but once the prince has sealed himself behind closed doors, Arthur turns to look at him. “You usually spar on the mornings you’re off duty.”

Jaime looks over in surprise. “With the tourney, it seemed prudent to rest instead. I didn’t suppose you’d notice.”

Arthur frowns. “Why would I not? We typically spar together if we’re both off duty.”

This isn’t untrue. It’s common practice for Kingsguard to seek one another to train in their free time, and as Jaime has fewer commitments than most, he doesn’t often miss the opportunity to head to the training yard when he’s able.

But he’d assumed it coincidence that Arthur often showed up too. They certainly haven’t arranged anything.

“I expect Willem Darry was there with some of his charges,” Jaime says after a beat. “You wouldn’t have lacked for a partner.”

Arthur looks like he wants to say more, but Jaime isn’t comfortable talking to him. He’s too aware that he’d truly, intentionally hurt Arthur two days ago. Too aware that Arthur tried to defend him despite it.

Jaime turns his gaze pointedly forward. “Is it the time? We’re on duty.”

He feels Arthur’s blank stare. “Of course. But you are well? You seem…”

 _I seem what?_ He won’t ask. “Yes. I’m well.”

That ends their exchange.

Jaime isn’t enthused to attend the tourney again, but it doesn’t feel right to remain at the Red Keep another evening, hiding away from everything. He wins his first two jousts easily as ever, though the satisfaction has utterly drained from doing so.

Then he rides against Arthur.

Beforehand, Jaime takes in Arthur mounted across from him, faceless in his helm. And at once, all he can think about is Arthur on his knees, vomiting because Jaime had dealt him some head injury. That, and the horrible _of course he thinks these things_ look that’d crossed Arthur’s face while Jaime yelled at him.

The signal is given for them to ride, but Jaime abruptly shrinks from the idea of attacking him again.

He misdirects his lance and shifts his shield slightly aside, and Arthur sends him crashing from his horse and into a clattering heap on the ground. The crowd roars, amused by what they assume is Arthur’s prowess, but as Jaime staggers to his feet, Arthur turns his horse to face him, and the look in his eye makes Jaime’s heart wither.

He scrambles away like a craven, scolded child.

Naturally, Arthur catches up to him before he can flee into the Kingsguard tent. He grabs Jaime’s arm to wrench him around. “What was that?”

Jaime yanks his arm from Arthur’s grasp. “Nerves. I don’t know.”

Arthur’s hand falls to his side. “Did you think I would be pleased if you let me win?”

That’s enough to drive away most of his guilt. Jaime narrows his eyes. “I wouldn’t lose to _please you_ ,” he snaps. “I—” He latches onto the first explanation he can think of. “It didn’t feel right.”

Arthur has a fascinating face, one Jaime could imagine on someone from the Age of Heroes; dignified and solemn, with an aquiline nose, deep-set eyes, and a well-formed mouth that sometimes betrays emotion when the rest of his features don’t. He likes pursing his lips, or quirking or twisting them – and the perplexed frown inspired by Jaime’s words is so deep it’s like a sculptor carved it there. “I don’t understand.”

Jaime backs closer to the tent. “I had a dream where I got angry and hurt you badly. And you let me, like you didn’t care.”

Arthur scrubs a hand down his face. “You wouldn’t hurt me.”

“Yes I would.” Jaime waves his hands. “I have a temper. At Crakehall, Merrett Frey tried to bully me, so I beat him bloody and locked him in a cellar.” Arthur looks ready to protest — perhaps to say he’s met Merrett Frey and knows how completely understandable that is — but Jaime adds, “I don’t like being disrespected.”

That makes Arthur pull up short. “Do you think I disrespect you?”

Jaime wishes he’d stayed at the Red Keep with the dogs. He tries to escape into the tent.

Arthur follows. “Jaime—”

Jaime spins and jabs a finger at him. “That. I don’t like that. When did we become such friends it’s proper to call me _Jaime_? We don’t even talk.”

“We…” Arthur begins, but Jaime can tell when it sinks in. He blinks rapidly. “We don’t, do we?”

Jaime throws his hands up. “And you haven’t even noticed _._ You see?”

“ _You_ talk,” Arthur says, shaking his head. “You talk to me.”

“I do that to everyone. When you’d all left, I talked to myself. I certainly got more invested responses.”

Arthur’s face twists, and somehow it’s worse than it’d been the day before. Except this time, Jaime isn’t trying to hurt him. Just to answer his questions and make him go away. His words shouldn’t bother Arthur. Not at all.

“Stop that,” Jaime orders, like Arthur is one of Snowflake’s puppies. “Stop _frowning._ I’m only explaining. You don’t have to act bothered, or… whatever you think you’re doing.” He regards Arthur, waiting for him to do something understandable and reasonable, but Arthur just keeps staring.

“This isn’t supposed to hurt you,” Jaime says, and he’s all but squeaking now. It’s galling. “I don’t want to hurt you. It’s why I threw the joust.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says. _He_ _’s sorry._ “You’re a good man. You wouldn’t hurt me undeservedly. Next time, please don’t hold back on my account. You’re remarkable with a lance, and it’s… a shame, to pretend to be less than you are.” He tries to smile, but it looks like it hurts his face. “I’m weary. Would you give the king my apologies for missing the feast?”

This is all wrong. Jaime swallows. “Of course.”

“Thank you, Ser Jaime.”

More wrongness. Jaime is immediately, irrevocably certain he’s never going to complain about Arthur referring to him too informally again.

When Jaime approaches the king to tell him Arthur left immediately after the jousting, Rhaegar looks at him disapprovingly. “Strange. After your match, I would’ve guessed you the one in need of rest. You rode poorly.”

Jaime realizes that Rhaegar also caught on that he’d lost on purpose. _He_ _’s calling me out on it._ He stands straighter. “I already explained to Arthur. There was a misunderstanding.”

Jaime had approached Rhaegar at the high table, so Rhaella and Elia are both right there, with Viserys leaning over in an unsubtle attempt at eavesdropping. Accordingly, the king keeps his voice low when he says, “Arthur has always spoken highly of your skill. If there was a misunderstanding, I imagine it’s one he found displeasing.”

Jaime can’t help himself. “When has he ever spoken of me?”

The king opens his mouth, looks around, then says, “Is this the time, Ser Jaime?”

It isn’t, and Jaime knows it. He wants to demand answers, knowing any trouble he gets into won’t last, but it no longer feels like his actions don’t matter. Hurting Arthur had mattered. It still matters. His conversation with Arthur just now, no matter how much more civil, no matter how harmless Jaime intended it to be, _matters_ _._

So would upsetting the king and all the people, making trouble for its own sake. They might forget, but Jaime won’t. Just like he won’t forget the pups and the kennel girl, or Oberyn smiling at him like he isn’t a ghost.

He nods and makes his retreat, but he can’t stop thinking about Rhaegar’s words, even as he inserts himself unnoticed in his usual place among the house guard. He shuts out the voices around him and tries ordering all the things about his interactions with Arthur that don’t make sense.

Arthur had needed to be told they aren’t friends. He’d realized, when Jaime said it, that they don’t talk. But he’d needed it pointed out.

Because he was… confused? Because he’d mistaken Jaime talking to — talking _at_ — him for something it wasn’t?

And two days ago, Arthur had assumed Jaime has friends. He’d possibly mistaken himself as one of them, how surprised he’d been when Jaime attacked him in the training yard, or when he’d protested Arthur calling him _Jaime._

Jaime frowns aggressively as he works his way through his meal, frustrated by the absurdity of the situation. The worst part is, he knows why Arthur would draw the wrong conclusion. Has he not made a point of acting like nothing has changed since he was fifteen and enamored with who he thought Arthur was? He’s gone out of his way to talk at Arthur, assuming it petty revenge, certain it’d be nothing but an annoyance.

Was it… not? Jaime doesn’t think Arthur could’ve assumed them very close, not unless he was well and truly letting his imagination run away from him. But assuming it’s acceptable to refer to him familiarly? Taking Jaime’s habitual good cheer at face value? Figuring his smiles and bright mood meant he looked forward to their sparring sessions?

Jaime can see how Arthur might’ve drawn the wrong conclusion. Particularly as he’d been a proper mess after returning to the Red Keep. If Jaime had begun his act while Arthur was still lost in his own head, Arthur might have resumed paying attention, only to find Jaime behaving as if all was well. 

Rhaegar’s song cuts into his musings. Jaime does his best not to listen, so agitated he fears he might cry if he does. Even afterward, he remains where he is, lacking the energy to return to the Red Keep, though the day is all but done.

It’s exhausting to consider, this idea that the shield he’s fashioned for himself might be contributing to the problems he created it to avoid.

And then there’s the idea of Arthur talking to Rhaegar about him. Not just once, either. _He has always spoken highly_ , Rhaegar had said.

What did that even mean?

_You're obsessing over him like a child. Like you used to._

Jaime rubs his eyes, and he’s just resolved to take himself back to the castle when Oberyn Martell slides into the space next to him, making room for himself with an elbow to the man at Jaime’s left. “Lannister, my sister sent me to fetch you.”

Jaime tilts his head. “Fetch… me. For what?”

Oberyn gestures to the clearing where people have begun to dance. Elia and Rhaegar must have already finished. “She’d have a dance.”

It’s unconventional for the woman to seek him, for the queen, who’s married and a mother. Perhaps the rules are different in Dorne, or perhaps Elia has grown bold enough to defy such things. She has been less careful, less quiet since becoming queen. _But why me?_ He isn’t useful as an ally at court with Tywin all but ostracized.

Jaime stands despite his confusion. He values the distraction, and he finds he’s genuinely curious. He asks Oberyn, “Has this something to do with our conversation this morning?”

“I didn’t speak of it,” says Oberyn, lifting a shoulder. “Perhaps she wants the prettiest partner.”

Jaime snorts, but otherwise neglects to respond. He finds the queen speaking with a handful of Dornishmen who’d accompanied Oberyn north. She lifts her head upon seeing him and excuses herself from the others, moving lightly to Jaime’s side. “I hope you don’t mind my request, ser.”

“I am honored by it,” he says, all courtesy. She laughs like he’s told a dry joke.

Jaime offers her his arm, and Elia takes it, the two of them crossing onto the shorn grass. She’s been in better health after the Mad King was deposed and imprisoned, or perhaps with years between her and difficult births, but she still feels slight where he rests a hand on her hip, small enough he can hardly believe how much she’s borne.

“My queen,” Jaime says soon as they’ve begun to dance. The music is soft and slow, and Elia seems content to do little more than sway. It makes conversation easy. “I didn’t lie that I’m honored, but I’m confused also. We aren’t well-acquainted.”

Elia hesitates. She has dark eyes and thick lashes and sharp features like Oberyn’s, a fierceness in them that can look odd with her typically subtle expressions. “No, I don’t suppose we are. Though… I’ve lately found myself regretting that. Our mothers were friends. Did you know that?”

Jaime shakes his head. “I do remember that you visited the Rock.”

“To see if we might wed.” The words are spoken freely, with no concern of being overheard. “It’s odd you should mention that. I’ve been thinking of that trip recently. You mightn’t recall, but Oberyn wanted to see your brother. Stories had reached us as we’d traveled west, most so outlandish they piqued our interest. They claimed Tywin’s newborn was a devil, or a monster.”

Jaime bristles but doesn’t pull away. She’s speaking softly, without malice. “People still say such things.”

“People are cruel,” Elia says heavily. “Oberyn asked and asked your sister to show him to us, but he’d been tucked away, hidden from sight. Finally, she managed it, and the two of you led us deep within the Rock to see this monstrous child.”

That memory comes back to him, too. Something warm seizes his chest, and he fears again that he might fall to tears. “You squealed and fussed over him.” Jaime blinks, swallowing hard. “You thought him charming.”

“He was. His _eyes,_ and he had this small belly.” Elia’s smile dims. “Oberyn remarked that he wasn’t much of a monster, but your sister said, ‘He killed my mother.’ Then she grabbed him by the cock, and she twisted and made him scream.” Jaime has to look away. He’d… forgotten. Elia adds, “You stopped her.”

Jaime can hardly keep his feet, he’s gone so suddenly light-headed. “Of course. He’s my brother.” _Whom I have not seen for almost four years._

Elia gets the same faraway look that Oberyn had only that morning. “You’ll find it amusing, but I remember thinking, ‘He is much too young, but it wouldn’t be so bad if we were to wed. He has a good heart.’”

Jaime casts his eyes away. “You haven’t answered my first question.”

“I have been leading to it.” Elia peers up into his eyes. “I mentioned regretting I didn’t approach you earlier. I fear you arrived at court when I wasn’t of a mind to broaden my circle. After Harrenhal, with Aerys as he’d been, I oft felt as if I trekked each day across a narrow chasm, and might fall if I tore my gaze too far from my own feet. And once Rhaegar started the war… trust came with difficulty.”

Jaime nods. He understands. Knows too well what she means about keeping her gaze on her own feet. He’d done the same.

“But it’s been a year since victory came at the Trident,” Elia says. “Months since Aerys has been locked away. I must get over my habit of keeping my circle so small. The Kingsguard is Rhaegar’s, except for Lewyn. I know that. But… you’re not quite his or mine.” Elia wrinkles her brow. “You don’t seem to maneuver yourself at all. I haven’t heard anything of you attempting to recover your father’s standing or to find a husband for your sister. You’ve made no effort to engender yourself to anyone with influence. I’d think you uninterested even in the king’s favor.”

Jaime freezes in place, he’s so startled. It hadn’t occurred to him he might want to do any of those things. His blatant surprise no doubt tells Elia as much, and aware it’s too late to feign sophisticated motivation, Jaime gives into the impulse to make a joke of it. “You do me too little credit. I visited the kennels this morning and made a terrific impression on Snowflake’s litter. I heard your daughter is interested, you see.” He regards her seriously. “I know it’s the princess who truly holds dominion over the Seven Kingdoms.” 

Elia laughs freely as a girl. It’s the first time Jaime has heard her do so.

The song finishes as her laughter ebbs, and they walk off to the side to finish speaking. Elia’s smile lingers in her eyes, even when her expression grows more serious. “Your clever schemes notwithstanding, I merely thought that if I should try to make more friends at court, you might be a safe place to begin.”

A safe place. A strange conclusion for her to draw. Jaime feels broken, like his sharp edges would wound anyone who comes to close. It that not what happened with Arthur?

But that’s different. Jaime decides he likes that Elia looks at him and thinks of a boy defending his little brother.

“Why approach me now?” he asks.

“I’ve been considering what I might offer you, what incentive I could provide to make you think friendship with me worthwhile.” Elia smiles apologetically. “But I’ve been watching you, and I recently concluded… I don’t know. That perhaps you might value the offer for what it is?”

There’s no pity in the way she says it. Jaime’s pride prickles, but not enough to make him angry. He scrapes together the strength for honesty. “That might be correct.”

Elia reaches out to squeeze his hand. “Perhaps when the tourney is through, you might help me assist Rhaenys in selecting one of the pups she has an eye on?” Her eyes sparkle. “Given you’ve already gone through the trouble of meeting them.”

The offer hits Jaime hard, because tomorrow, she’ll never have made it.

 _No,_ Jaime thinks, soon as that sinks in. This is what he’s wanted. Elia is looking at him, seeing him. Oberyn seemed to as well. And the situation with Arthur isn’t good, but it’s reparable. Time can go back to normal now, and he’d be fine. He wants it to go back to normal, because he doesn’t want this conversation to disappear.

“I’d like that,” Jaime says thickly. If Elia notices the quiver in his voice, she’s too tactful to comment.

Jaime leaves the feast immediately after he and Elia part. Back at the Red Keep, he falls asleep hoping he’ll wake to a new day, as if his trivial successes might be enough to break the pattern.

But he wakes to the same sky and the same distant bank of clouds.

It’s the first day of the tourney, for the seventh time in a row. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, but it's actually canon that child!Jaime loved dogs. Cersei mentions it in AFFC, and it's one of those details that'd gone over my head for ages, that I picked up recently and found disproportionately charming. And which it was apparently very important to include in this fic ;).
> 
> Thanks to everyone for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

It’s better that his days are still repeating, Jaime tells himself as he leaves the White Sword Tower. After all, if he’s made so much progress in less than a week, what might he manage with more time? And Elia will still be thinking the things that prompted her to approach him. He hasn’t lost anything. Not really. 

He’s nonetheless uncertain what to do with his morning. Visit the puppies again? That’d begun a promising previous day. But he remembers Arthur asking why he hadn’t come to spar and finds himself wondering whether the other man had stirred at all without Jaime arriving to pull him from his own thoughts. Had Arthur sat staring at his helm until he’d needed to leave for the breakfast?

Unnerved by the possibility, Jaime trudges toward the armory. After months of subtly avoiding Arthur, he’s surprised by how little aversion he feels in seeking him out. Their interactions the previous day hadn’t been pleasant, but they had been enlightening. He feels less small at the idea there’s a mutual misunderstanding simmering between them. That Arthur hasn’t forgotten about Jaime, or decided he isn’t worth acknowledging, but rather might get something from their awkward, infrequent interactions, and hasn’t realized that Jaime doesn’t.

 _You might have misunderstood,_ he warns himself. Except he knows he hasn’t misunderstood that he’s hurt Arthur with his words the past two days. He _has the power_ to hurt Arthur Dayne, just by saying he doesn’t like him, or that they aren’t friends.

Whatever Arthur feels for him, it isn’t indifference.

This has properly sunk in by time Jaime finds Arthur brooding in the armory. For the first time, Jaime wonders how long he’s been there. Had he assumed Jaime would come, sat to wait, and gotten distracted? Or had he meant to head to the yard soon as he’d armored himself, only for a dark mood to come over him?

That happens to Jaime sometimes, where he’ll be going about his business, and some stupid thing yanks him back to the Mad King’s throne room. It’s a wretched feeling, fighting to maintain his smile fiercely as a drowning man would fight for air, thrashing and struggling to stay present enough not to let on that anything is wrong.

He bites his lip and studies Arthur, and considers that he might be drowning in the same way. And remembers Elia, what she’d said about not having reached out to Jaime before, because she’d needed to keep her eyes on her own feet. 

Jaime again remembers Arthur defending him to Rhaegar, right before he’d fallen over from the blow Jaime had dealt him. He abruptly doubts Arthur would turn his back if he knew Jaime was having a difficult time. That doesn’t make his behavior acceptable. It doesn’t erase all the times Jaime has needed someone and been forced to struggle alone. But it quells Jaime’s uglier feelings, letting a soft sort of worry make itself known.

Jaime clears his throat. “Arthur?” _He calls me Jaime. I can be familiar, too._

Arthur looks up with a start, but he shows no sign of being bothered by the lack of title. “Forgive me. I was…” He fails at smiling. “Lost in thought.”

Jaime is struck by the impulse not to let him brush it off. He straightens, as if better posture might make him brave. “Brooding, you mean. You do that a lot.”

Arthur’s false smile flickers away. He shifts the helm to rub at his eyes. “It’s nothing for you to worry over.”

Heart in his throat, Jaime says, “We’re friends, are we not?”

“Of course,” says Arthur, before Jaime can even begin to feel foolish. He pauses, and it gives Jaime a chance to try to swallow that response. It doesn’t go down easily. “But,” he goes on, now serious, “my burdens aren’t yours to bear.” He stands. “Did you wish to spar?”

 _Stop asking questions,_ is strongly implied in the topic change.

 _Friends,_ thinks Jaime, incredulous. The absurdity makes him half mad, half giddy. “I have a better idea. Best we have a break today anyway, with the tourney. Off with your armor.” He flicks a hand with an abundance of false confidence.

And Arthur still doesn’t look surprised. Not like he had when Jaime attacked him, or when Jaime called him out for informality. He really had been swallowing it — all of Jaime’s smiles, his chatter, his resolute pleasantness. Jaime can’t imagine it. Elia hadn’t been fooled. He’s sure of that by the way she’d spoken to him the night before, soft and serious like he’d understand all her complicated feelings.

But Elia had been there all those months Arthur had not, hadn’t she? She wouldn’t overlook what it’d cost to exist in the Red Keep as the war escalated, when it might not occur to Arthur to consider it. 

“Is a… break truly necessary?” asks Arthur with a frown. He says ‘break’ like it’s a Dothraki term Jaime threw haphazardly into their conversation, and he’s only loosely inferred its meaning through context. 

“Yes,” Jaime tells him firmly.

To his shock, Arthur shrugs and begins to remove his armor. With dry indulgence, he asks, “What is it you plan to drag me into?” 

“Important Kingsguard work,” Jaime says. This is all going to fall apart. He can’t believe it’s gone this well already. But Arthur will put his foot down. He’ll call Jaime out on his presumption. He’ll walk away.

“Why do I doubt that?” asks Arthur, though he doesn’t seem to require a response, continuing to shed his plate without prompting. 

Jaime studies him as he does so, trying to figure out what’s going through his head. He has no luck on that account, though the realization of how lean Arthur has gotten beneath his armor stirs him to speech. “You should eat more.”

Arthur shelves his helm, then turns to Jaime with a wary look. “Is there a reason behind your sudden interest in my welfare?”

“It’s not sudden. It’s just the first I’ve mentioned it.” Jaime shrugs like it’s no big deal, though his heart is beating too fast, and he’s increasingly certain Arthur will stop indulging him at any moment. “I admit, it’s a bit disappointing that I’ve only gotten better than you because you’ve begun to shrink.”

That does surprise Arthur, though he only sighs a bit, and not with any particular hurt or gusto. “I imagine.”

“That was a joke,” Jaime says lamely.

Arthur ignores him. “I pray you’re not truly worrying over me. My burdens—”

“Gods, don’t repeat that. I didn’t like hearing it the first time.” Jaime heads for the door. “Come along, now. Before your pig-headedness gets irritating.” He can feel Arthur’s incredulity, aimed at his back. But he also hears his footsteps, and is baffled all over at the idea that Arthur would follow him so readily. “No questions either,” Jaime adds. “It’s a surprise.”

The surprise isn’t so far away that the suspense can build for long.

Arthur says, “You’ve brought me to the kennels.”

 _This was an immensely stupid idea._ “Kingsguard business,” he repeats resolutely as he pushes open the door. The same two dogs as yesterday come over, and Jaime kneels to greet them same as he had before. They respond to his easy enthusiasm, both crowding closer with wagging tails. This time, Jaime expects the kennel girl to show up, and he smiles at her as she moves hesitantly closer.

“Brea,” he says warmly. She jumps. “Sorry. I asked around about names when I decided to visit. Ser Arthur and I are here to have a look at Snowflake’s litter. The princess is interested in a pup, and we need to examine them. To ensure they’re suitable.”

“T-They’re young yet, sers.” Brea’s whole face is red. “They might bite. If that’s an issue.”

“They’ll learn better. I trust there’s been nothing wanting in their care.” Jaime stands and gestures in the direction he knows they’ll be going. “Are they back that way?”

She nods and offers to show them, and Jaime accepts with sparkling courtesy. Arthur has put on his most dignified, unreadable face, but Jaime is nearly positive it’s because he’s confused and doesn’t know what else to do. At least, he prays that’s the explanation. Just in case, he turns his gaze forward and avoids looking at him, so he isn’t tempted to analyze his expression too deeply. As they pass other stalls, he strikes up light conversation with Brea, pausing occasionally to greet the handful of dogs that approach.

Then they’re back in the corner room with the straw beds and packed dirt floor, the six pups napping as they’d been the day before. Jaime asks for their names, and he’s gratified to see Arthur’s sternness waver when Lewyn is listed among them.

Jaime picks up the Lewyn-pup and holds him up to Arthur. “What do you think? Do you see the resemblance?”

Lewyn yawns, showing sharp teeth.

Arthur gives a smile that’s almost reserved. “They appear to share a similar, lively disposition.”

Brea hides a smile behind her hand. This time, she excuses herself, the door shutting quietly behind her.

Jaime sinks onto the dirt and immediately finds Vhagar and Peaches crawling over his legs. “Best sit, Arthur. You can’t learn anything of value lurking up there.”

“What are we doing?” asks Arthur, a sigh in his voice. But he sits, if a bit stiffly.

Jaime has gotten by on blitheness and feigned confidence thus far, but he doesn’t want to dismiss this as some unimportant whim. He wants confirmation that perhaps whatever is between him and Arthur isn’t so empty as he’d thought. But he doesn’t know how to be serious anymore, really. Certainly not with Arthur Dayne.

As he thinks, Jaime plunks Vhagar into his lap, while Peaches begins to gnaw on his boot. He gently nudges the latter aside, then begins carefully, “Growing up, I didn’t bother with people much besides Cersei. I had friends, but they were mostly just to spar with, and to keep me company while I did other things boys do that girls aren’t allowed to. I never told them anything important, though, and didn’t seek them to play if my sister was available.”

Arthur cocks his head and watches him, listening intently.

Jaime’s face flushes for no good reason, and he focuses on keeping Peaches from his boot. “But Cersei has always been… complicated.” He tries to think of a good way to say it, but ends up adding, “A little mean sometimes, even to me.” It doesn’t feel so traitorous to admit as it should. It’s scary to think of how much time has passed with the two of them apart. Now that Aerys is gone and he doesn’t need to cling to his memories of her to stay sane, they’ve begun to slip away. _She’s_ begun to slip away. 

Lewyn tries to bite at Arthur’s sleeve. He gets elbow instead, and Arthur curses softly as he reclaims his arm, using his other hand to keep the dog from pursing his quarry.

Smiling, Jaime goes on, “I’d sometimes go to the kennels after we fought. Or if she said something that hurt, or did something I didn’t understand. The kennels or the stables. It felt like… betrayal, to go to any of the boys I spent time with, but not when I’d hide with the animals. And dogs and horses, they’re sort of the opposite of Cersei. Very simple.” Jaime scratches Vhagar behind the ear. “It got so I’d visit if I was upset at all, about anything.”

Awareness dawns in Arthur’s eyes. “You’re attempting to improve my spirits.”

Jaime’s face warms further, and he offers his best grin in the hope it’ll distract from how pink he must be. “Is it working? Do you even like dogs? I should’ve asked that first.”

Arthur doesn’t immediately answer, and when Jaime looks over properly, he’s disconcerted to find Arthur staring at him. Not just looking, not just seeing, but truly _staring_ in a way that reminds Jaime of looks he’s seen women cast at Rhaegar when he plays his harp. The warmth in Jaime’s face spreads to his neck and ears, and he briefly forgets how to breathe.

Ser Dog claims his attention by deciding he wants to eat Jaime’s boot too, and instigating a fight with Peaches over it. Jaime’s eyes snap to the snarling pups. He waggles his leg until they’re both dislodged, then moves so he’s sitting cross-legged instead, the better to more easily defend himself. But his heart continues to beat too loudly in his ears, the moment so disconcerting his hands tremble. _What is wrong with me?_

Arthur’s response comes a beat late. “It’s working.”

Jaime chances another look at him, but Arthur has begun to let Ot chew on his leather glove, his gaze averted. That’s good. He’s too intense, is the problem. Jaime has hardly forgotten his knighting — still has a scar from Dawn’s cut — nor the solemn purple eyes, or the pitch of his voice when he’d talked about blood and devotion. _You made me bleed,_ Jaime remembers thinking. _Do you mean for me to be devoted to you?_ But it hadn’t wound up meaning much, just like his stare now doesn’t mean much. 

He decides Arthur must just be overdramatic.

“Are you collecting useful information?” Jaime asks to fill the silence. When Arthur looks at him blankly, he says, “We’re on a Kingsguard mission, remember?”

“Ah, yes. I’d quite forgotten.” Arthur reaches over to pet Vhagar, whom Jaime is still holding. “This one would make the most sense, considering the name of her cat.”

Jaime brightens. “Then she could have a pony called Meraxes.” 

Arthur immediately frowns. “She’d… actively _insist_ on a pony called Meraxes, if she has pets named after the other two. Or perhaps a bird or a monkey. Best not tempt that. Rhaegar wouldn’t be pleased.” Arthur thinks for a while. “It can’t be Egg.”

“What’s wrong with Egg?” asks Jaime, taking in the most lethargic of the dogs, who’s already gotten tired of examining the two humans who’ve come to visit, and is napping in the corner.

“I imagine she named him after her brother,” Arthur says. “It’s poor form to name a pet after the heir to the Seven Kingdoms.”

Jaime realizes Arthur is honestly, seriously considering the political ramifications of which dog Rhaenys chooses, like this is an actual mission. A stab of fondness runs through him, and he finds himself grinning. “I expect Lewyn wouldn’t work for a similar reason. He guards the princess most of the time, so he’d be the one running down the halls looking for the dog if she looses it. Wouldn’t go over well to have a Kingsguard sprinting about, shouting his own name.”

“It’d be amusing,” Arthur offers, “but not very dignified. Perhaps Ser Dog? He seems the most like her in temperament.”

Ser Dog has been pigheadedly attempting to dart past Jaime’s guarding hands to get at his boots. Jaime plucks him off the ground and gives him a considering look, then frowns. “You’re not wrong, though I’ve only just noted Ser Dog is a bitch.”

Arthur only shrugs. “If a descendent of Nymeria and Visenya says a female pup is a knight, I shouldn’t dare to protest.”

Jaime laughs and thoughtlessly presses Ser Dog against his cheek, then remembers he isn’t alone and sets her back on the ground. “This has been illuminating. If the princess should deign to ask for advice, I venture to presume we’ll have useful opinions to give. Though it’s a shame the other five won’t be so pampered. Perhaps we should smuggle these others into the tower? So they aren’t left out.”

“Jaime,” says Arthur helplessly.

“They might sleep in the common room. I’m sure our sworn brothers would approve.” Jaime mimics Barristan’s voice. “Ser Jaime, this was an enlightened decision. The contemplative peace of this space was wearing on me greatly, and it was a stroke of mastery to break it with the yapping of small dogs.”

Arthur truly, properly laughs. Jaime is discomfited to realize he still feels too warm, though he decides the feeling isn’t uncomfortable. Glimpsing the trace of color in Arthur’s face, the way the light hits his eyes, he decides it’s actually rather nice.

Too soon, they have to leave to stand guard for breakfast. Jaime almost fears stepping out of the kennels will restore unwanted normalcy, but though Arthur’s ease shifts to his usual regal dignity, he glances at Jaime every few steps, almost as if he too thinks the morning mightn’t be real, and fears it’ll slip away if he lets his attention lapse.

They part at the White Sword Tower to get into their armor, though their timing is such that Arthur passes Jaime as he’s descending from his room, and they walk together to Maegor’s Holdfast, Arthur seeming to take it for granted that they’ll do so, even though Jaime thinks it might be better if they didn’t. He fears Arthur will decide, ‘That’s enough Jaime for the day,’ at some point, and perhaps say something that’ll ruin the pleasant morning.

It’s almost a relief to reach the solar, where Gerold is waiting.

“You’re less early than usual,” he informs Arthur, more curious than chiding.

“Jaime and I were discussing matters relating to the princess’s wellbeing,” Arthur informs him.

“Anything to which I should be privy?”

“Not as of yet,” Jaime says, “but we’ll report it if anything comes up.”

Ser Gerold appears confused by this, but he asks no further questions before departing. Inside the room, Rhaegar has already ventured from his bedchamber and taken up a post near the fire, watching the flames with intent eyes. He continues to do so a moment after they’ve entered, then straightens and looks between the two of them with lifted brows.

“You’re less early than usual,” he tells Arthur, but he doesn’t say it like Ser Gerold. He sounds amused. 

Arthur outright ignores him. “I want Jaime near you so he can watch your plate. Oberyn—”

That chases the fondness from Rhaegar’s voice. “Arthur.” 

It’s jarring how the day corrects so suddenly back to the expected. Jaime smiles thinly and waits for the bickering to cease, and when ordered, takes his place next to Rhaegar’s chair. This time, when Elia arrives and asks him to pull out her seat, Jaime gives her a proper smile, and he’s pleased that her irritation at Rhaegar ebbs as she briefly returns the expression. He later finds a moment to amuse himself when Rhaenys asks after Snowflake’s litter, and he catches Arthur’s eye and quirks a brow, which nearly gets Arthur to smile even though he’s wearing his ‘I’m a cold and deadly Kingsguard’ face.

Jaime is also oddly touched when Arthur speaks up after they’ve left the room on Rhaegar’s tail.

“You should let her get a dog,” he tells the king as they walk. “Rhaenys, I mean. If it’s trained well, there’ll be little enough harm in letting it follow her around the castle. Big as those things get, it might even serve as added protection.”

Rhaegar turns to Arthur, the agitation with which he’d exited the room giving way to confusion. “What brought that on?”

“I only think it might be good for her,” says Arthur. 

The king shrugs. “I don’t expect my mother was going to let me tell her no, but I see little enough reason to ban it either way. I thought to have her attend training sessions with the kennel master so she knows how to control it as it gets bigger.”

“A fine idea,” Arthur says. Then, a moment later, “I’m sorry to ask, but where are we going?”

Rhaegar gives the same answer he always does, and in short order, Jaime and Arthur are left framing the library doors. Jaime isn’t over his fear that Arthur will get sick of him, so he does his best to be a proper Kingsguard, maintaining his focus without chattering or slouching or yawning. But Arthur makes it difficult, glancing over every so often in a way that’s hard to ignore. Jaime knows Arthur doesn’t often look at him, that he hasn’t imagined or misinterpreted that, and he becomes increasingly certain the other man has decided his earlier behavior had been too odd. 

Whether he’s suspicious, or simply casting silent judgment, Jaime is less sure. 

He grows more confused when he finally chances a look over – relieved to find Arthur looking forward – and finds him nearly smiling, his face almost soft. It makes Jaime so uncertain that he falls back into comfortable habit and breaks the silence, this time by singing “Milady’s Supper” under his breath.

“Jaime,” Arthur chides, but he doesn’t sound stern at all. 

“Just passing the time.” 

“We’re supposed to be passing the time remaining alert.” 

“I am alertly singing.” 

Arthur gives him a look, and he does fall silent then, but somehow the interaction puts him at ease, like it’s brought things back to a familiar place, except all the undertones are softer than usual, and Jaime doesn’t feel hurt or angry.

He’s startled by how quickly the rest of their guard passes, after that.

This time, Jaime wins the joust. He isn’t quite pleased when he turns around after five passes and watches Arthur get up from the dirt, but the sight eases a prickle in his heart. _There,_ he thinks at the Arthur from the day before. _I gave you a proper match._

It’s the first time he’s won without being too upset or distracted to appreciate it. He still finds the victory less than overwhelming, but this time, after he makes sure Arthur is steady on his feet, he raises his visor and passes the stands, blowing a kiss at a lady of perhaps eleven or twelve, who puts a hand over her mouth as if to hold in a gasp. 

He’s stopped believing that beating Arthur will prove or fix anything, but Jaime decides it isn’t entirely disappointing. He’s further pleased to find Arthur waiting to walk with him to their tent – until he notes a trace of discomfort in the other man’s face.

“Are you hurt?” Jaime asks in a rush, uncomfortably recalling their fight three days before.

Arthur looks startled. “No, of course not.” He begins walking, and once Jaime falls into step beside him, adds, “You rode well.” 

“Of course I did.” Jaime wishes Arthur would’ve taken off his helm, because though his visor is lifted, he can’t see his expression now that they’re side by side. “Why don’t you sound pleased? I can’t imagine you’re the sort to be graceless in defeat.” 

Arthur doesn’t respond for several steps. When he does, it’s with his face still turned forward. “It wasn’t entirely a jape, was it? Your remark this morning?” 

_What remark,_ Jaime almost says, until he remembers his comment about Arthur not eating enough, and that it cheapened the fact he’d gotten better than him. 

Jaime looks at him incredulously. “You’re truly asking me that?” 

Arthur picks at the wrist of one of his gauntlets. It’s an unsettlingly human mannerism. “I only…” He grows more rigid. “Perhaps I’m frustrated with myself, that I did not ride as well as I could. It is easy to assume you might feel the same.”

Jaime remembers calling him useless three days before, and his heart sinks. It does sometimes make him angry that Arthur has let his strength and skill diminish, even a negligible amount. But not in the way Arthur is implying, as if it’s robbing Jaime of some personal satisfaction. He doesn’t care for his own sake. 

It’s more like when he and Cersei were young, and they were playing near their grandfather’s two old lions. To show how brave she was, Cersei shoved her whole arm into the cage, and Jaime grabbed her and yanked her away, except he’d been so upset he almost wanted to shove her arm back in, so she’d get it bitten off and realize how stupid she was being. She was perfect and hale and amazing, and he still gets angry when he thinks how willing she’d been to hurt herself for no good reason. 

That’s the sort of anger he feels when he’s reminded that Arthur isn’t well. It’s different, because Cersei chose to stick her arm in that cage, and Jaime knows Arthur isn’t choosing not to eat or sleep. He knows how weariness and misery can grip you so strongly that small things feel like insurmountable tasks. But the simmering frustration is the same, along with a similar desire to give Arthur a good shaking and yell that he’s being stupid and should get a good night’s sleep and eat a proper bloody meal. 

_You’re not supposed to care,_ Jaime reminds himself, though dryly. The day has made evident that his efforts to remain indifferent have produced subpar results. 

“I don’t feel the same,” Jaime informs Arthur. “You didn’t even ride poorly. Better than you usually do when we’re training.” 

“Yes, but…” _Not my best,_ he seems to refrain from saying. They reach the tent, and Arthur turns to Jaime as they enter. “Did I say you performed admirably?” 

“You said I rode well, which amounts to the same thing, though I appreciate the prettier wording.” After a beat, Jaime faces him and adds, “It isn’t as if your rusty skills are cause for panic, regardless. You’re not a done old man who’ll get worse and worse until he dies. It’s more like Selmy. He’s still not back to his best after taking those wounds on the Trident. Perhaps you only need more time, or… or need to find some other means to help your recovery along.” 

At that, Arthur grows visibly confused. “I’m not hurt, Jaime.” He says it like he honestly thinks Jaime might have misunderstood something. 

“You know,” Jaime says, “I can’t tell if _you’re_ actually somewhat daft, or if you’re so determined to assume I’m daft that it confuses you sometimes. Your black moods, the staring into space, your persistent lack of cheerfulness, that’s from the war, isn’t it? And Lyanna? I meant those things probably won’t grip you so fiercely forever. That time might help?” 

Arthur regards him in such a way that makes clear he’d been certain Jaime hadn’t been aware of any of those problems.

 _Better when I couldn’t see his face._ To distract himself, Jaime begins to work off his left gauntlet. He and Arthur both do have squires, though neither has appeared to perform their duties post-joust, not even on Jaime’s first day. Then, he nor Arthur have once managed to make a calm and civil trip to the tent, and he’d hardly blame the boys for giving them space. 

Jaime admittedly hasn’t been particularly attentive to his squire, regardless. The lad is an unexceptional scrub from a family who’d been loyal to Rhaegar, the idea being that inviting a boy to squire at court should be viewed as a reward. It’s difficult to imagine the boy agrees, given Jaime hadn’t deserved his cloak, and hasn’t performed any great feats since riding against the Kingswood Brotherhood.

 _And killing Aerys’s pyromancers,_ he reminds himself, for that must count for something, even if he hasn’t told anyone. After Rhaegar had gotten rid of Aerys, Jaime had gone poking around, wary they mightn’t abandon the wildfire plot so easily. When he’d found them still brewing the substance, he’d thought it cleanest to simply take their heads. But they hadn’t gotten much wildfire made far as he could tell, so he doesn’t have much proof there’d been a larger plan at work. Aside from bitterly holding his tongue as a response to being ignored so utterly, Jaime also isn’t inclined to risk being thought a murderer. 

_If only I’d gotten Rossart with them,_ Jaime muses as he finishes removing the gauntlet and the leather glove beneath. Aerys’s Hand had been seized, sentenced, and banished before Jaime knew what’d happened. If anyone had cared to ask him, he might’ve parted with facts that would’ve seen the man dead. _But they hadn’t asked. None of them had asked me a damn thing._

Irritated that he’s stumbled into that line of thought – he makes a point of staying well away from such memories – Jaime uses the gauntlet to gesture Arthur closer. “If you’re determined to cultivate an awkward silence, you might help me with my armor while you do so. I’ve a hope it might distract you from regarding me so strangely.” 

Arthur looks startled, then embarrassed. “My apologies. Are you being glib, or do you truly desire assistance?”

“If you’re willing to serve me, I’ll hardly decline,” says Jaime, offering his right hand.

Arthur blinks rapidly, twice, then reaches out to remove the gauntlet. He studies it for a moment once it’s off. After a second, says, “I don’t think you’re daft. It only seems I sometimes overlook how much you’ve surely grown since you were fifteen. Rhaegar has tried to tell me as much, but—"

“Do you and the king speak of me often?” Jaime has to ask.

“Your name has come up. On occasion. It isn’t gossip. Merely…” Trailing off, Arthur sets the gauntlet aside and reaches for Jaime’s chinstrap.

Jaime catches his hand by the wrist, holding it between their faces. “Would your task not be easier if you removed your gauntlets first?” 

Arthur blinks, like he doesn’t recognize his own hand, then gives a helpless laugh. “Seven hells.” He reclaims that arm to remove the gauntlet, casting it next to Jaime’s with a shake of his head before working off the other. “I might blame you for unsettling me. You’ve been strange today.” 

“How so?” asks Jaime, frowning. 

Arthur goes quiet, a look in his eye that makes clear he’s thinking hard about his response. He sets his second gauntlet aside, then unclasps his chin strap for good measure and removes his helm, before reaching to do Jaime’s. 

“You usually don’t ask me questions,” Arthur says softly, gently working the helm over Jaime’s head. He places it with the rest of the armor. Absently reaches for Jaime’s right vambrace. “You don’t ask me for things.” With a note of realization, he finishes, “You normally act like you don’t expect me to respond at all.” His brow is creased, his face troubled. 

“Yes, well,” Jaime says blithely, “a few weeks of underwhelming responses after the war, and I suppose my expectations fell accordingly. I never received much reason to reconsider that approach, so…” He says this like none of it matters, but he can see he’s doing it again. Causing pain when he doesn’t want to. “I understand! You weren’t ignoring me, and it isn’t that you didn’t care. Sometimes, if things get bad enough, it can feel like… you’re crossing a narrow chasm, and might fall if you don’t keep your eyes on your own feet.” 

He silently apologizes to Elia for stealing her words, but they seem to work. Arthur looks less on the verge of horror, more like he’s just very sad. He seems to forget about Jaime’s vambrace and lifts a hand to his face instead, splaying his palm across Jaime’s cheek.

 _I feel like I’m not the only one being strange today,_ Jaime ought to say, because the face-touching is incredibly, incredibly odd. The words won’t come out.

“You’re far too forgiving,” Arthur says heavily, looking at Jaime like he had earlier, that ‘maiden gazing at Rhaegar playing his harp’ look, except it’s more melancholy this time.

Jaime laughs, slightly too high-pitched. “I’m truly not. You should hear the horrible things I think sometimes. And you should’ve seen what I did to Merrett Frey once when he—"

“I’ve met Merrett Frey,” Arthur says under his breath, but Jaime hears, and he’s startled into laughing again, this time with genuine delight. Without thinking, he leans into Arthur’s hand, relaxing despite himself.

Then his eyes catch on Arthur’s, and Arthur curves his fingers so they’re actively, intentionally cradling Jaime’s face. He seems to tip his head forward, almost like… But he stops and slowly straightens, moving his hand away with such unnatural deliberateness it’s as if he thinks Jaime might not notice if he’s very careful about it.

“Forgive me,” Arthur says. The way he says it, the lilt of his accent, makes Jaime shiver. “You’ve given me much to think about. I was distracted.” He reaches for Jaime’s vambrace again, pauses like he thinks Jaime might tell him not to, then finishes the motion. 

At first, Jaime can’t speak. His head is scrambled, his heart beating too fast. “You,” he gets out. He swallows. “You’ve been jumpy. Ill at ease. Do you not like this? Me, asking questions? Expecting responses?” 

Arthur removes the vambrace, then moves up to the pauldron. His eyes slide upward, though the intensity has softened. Now, he appears tired. “It’s sweeter than I can put into words, Jaime. I’m not ill at ease. Only off balance. Reevaluating certain things.” 

The answer is so perfect that Jaime smiles instead of trying to summon a suitable reply, and they fall silent as Arthur finishes Jaime’s right arm, then his left. It’d be a pleasant silence, except Jaime can’t stop thinking about the way Arthur’s head had briefly tipped forward. He swears his cheek is still warm from Arthur’s hand, and the strange moment is enough to disrupt his satisfaction with how the day has progressed. He’d begun to think he understood where he stands with Arthur. Now, he’s confused all over again. 

He almost wishes to run off, fall asleep, and wake up to a day where none of this has happened. This has escalated too far. There are too many emotions. But he doesn’t want the day to end, either. He wants to keep this one even more than he’d wanted to keep the day before.

He suddenly can’t bear to see Elia again, to sit at the feast and dance with her, only to lose the interaction a second time. He can hardly bear to continue standing so close to Arthur, who’s called him a friend and talked to him properly and honestly, and glances up every so often and looks at Jaime like he matters. What’s the point of any of it if it’ll just… go away? 

It’s been a week, and he wants it to stop. 

Arthur unfastens Jaime’s gorget and pulls it off, then gently adjusts the collar of the doublet he’s wearing beneath. Calloused fingers brush against bare skin, and Jaime shivers. Arthur pulls the hand abruptly away and moves it to one of the straps on Jaime’s breastplate, just above his ribs. _Too many emotions,_ Jaime thinks again, so full of them he can hardly think. 

Jaime wants his masks and smiles back. He wants his anger. Those things are safe, and this isn’t.

Arthur finishes with the buckles and lifts off the breastplate. Then he falls to one knee and gets to work on Jaime’s left greave. Seeing him there, kneeling like that, turns Jaime’s knees weak as grass. _This is stupid. It’s absurd._

Does he truly want to keep this day? Would it not be better to wake and find it gone on the morrow? The strangeness entirely erased?

Arthur makes quick work of the poleyn, then searches for the buckles on that leg’s cuisse. Heat builds low in Jaime’s belly, and he bites his tongue hard as he can, his hands shaking. No, no. This is wrong. This… _It’s Arthur’s fault. He was going to kiss me._

Jaime wishes he could chase away the thought. He hadn’t wanted to let it form. It’s silly. He’d misinterpreted something. He… 

Can’t deal with this, and the emotions, and nightfall looming so close. He doesn’t let himself dwell on the matter, and he’s relieved that Arthur keeps his motions quick and efficient as he finishes with the cuisse, then does Jaime’s other leg, all within a minute. Afterward, he rises slowly, and it hasn’t been very long at all since he’d begun undoing Jaime’s armor, but a small eternity might as well have passed. 

“Do you wish me to help you?” Jaime chokes out, reaching to touch Arthur’s breastplate. He isn’t sure if he hopes Arthur will accept, or terrified by the possibility.

Arthur’s eyes are dark in the tent’s lengthening shadows, as black as they are purple. “I can manage. You’ll be wanting to clean up for the feast.” 

Jaime shakes his head. “I’m not going to the feast. I…” He can’t find a pleasant lie. “I’m of a mind to be alone with my thoughts for a while.” 

“Then go and do that. I won’t keep you.” Arthur meets his eye and gives him a careful, unreadable look. “Things between us are… well?”

The question is so pointed and awkwardly grave, he might as well have asked, ‘You’re not unduly disturbed that I touched your face and caressed your neck?’

“They’re well,” Jaime says, not letting himself think about it with any depth at all. He steps away. “I’ll see you on the morrow, Arthur.” 

Arthur nods, though he’s so tense Jaime isn’t sure he believed the reassurance. As if it could possibly help, Jaime touches his arm for a lingering moment before he departs.

He doesn’t know if he could count the day as actively good, but as he walks back to the Red Keep in deepening twilight, he prays for the second evening in a row that it won’t be snatched away from him.

When he wakes on his eighth morning to the same sky, Jaime decides he’s had enough. _If this won’t stop on its own, I’ll find a way to make it stop._

After a moment’s thought, he determines a promising first step. The king spends all of his time in the library. Everyone says he’s done so since he was a child, and Jaime has even heard rumors that interest in magic had something to do with him taking Lyanna Stark. Might he not know something of Jaime’s predicament? Or at least know of a book that might be helpful? 

And Arthur trusts him – while Rhaegar, conveniently, is _not_ Arthur, whom Jaime is not ready to face.

It’s as good a solution as any. _And if he thinks I’m mad and locks me up with his father,_ Jaime thinks as he yanks on his breeches, _I can always try again on the morrow._


End file.
